The Other Side of Samuel P. Porter

I follow Barney into the bar. I don't know “Barney”, all I know it's some tall black guy stepping in through the door ahead of me. He walks right over a bunch of crispy twenty-dollar bills that are lying on the floor, and everyone inside the place yells, “Barney!” at the top of their lungs.

I bend down and scoop up the bills as fast as I can and put them in my briefcase. No one sees me, they're all cheering for old Barney. Now, before you get the wrong impression, I'm no thief. I want to make that clear. I'm an architect and make good money. If I had seen who dropped the money on the floor I would have given it back. All I knew at the time was that someone dropped what turned out to be eighteen twenty-dollar bills on the floor and I knew it wasn't Barney, and I knew it wasn't me.

What was I supposed to do, say “Excuse me, did anyone see who dropped three hundred and sixty dollars on the floor?”

No, of course not.

My plan was if someone started patting all their pockets and griping about loosing three hundred and sixty smackers or something like that, I would, of course, stand up and give every red cent back to whoever the poor, old, so-and-so was that lost it.

Well right then this guy named Eddie comes in and sits down at the stool next to mine and starts sneering at me again. This guy Eddie was the reason I left the other bar. Now, before you start thinking that I'm some raving alcoholic, maybe I should back up a bit.

You see, I was in town for a very important presentation of my plans for the new City Hall. The presentation went as well as a presentation can go. The mayor was thrilled, the whole planning commission was practically hyper-ventilating when they got a look at the actual scale model I had made up. I was celebrating. I was in a good mood.

So then this “Eddie” guy starts mouthing off. Going on and on about this and about that, getting himself all worked up.

Hey, I was in a celebrating mood, I wasn't about to sit there and let this idiot spoil my night, so I left. I left everything, the bar, my Jag parked out in front of the bar, the scale-model of City Hall in the back of my Jag, everything. Walked two blocks, came into another bar, and found three hundred and sixty dollars laying on the floor.

I am telling you-- things were going fine for one Samuel P. Porter!

Then this Eddie guy shows up again. Sits down beside me and starts up with the glaring routine.

Everyone in the bar says, “Hiya Eddie!”

Eddie says, “Hi!” to everybody. Wave, wave, and the big fat bartender comes over and says “What's up, cutie-pie?” to Eddie and sets what looks like a vodka tonic in front of him.

I say, “If that's a vodka tonic, I'll have the same.” I figure maybe old Eddie-boy beside me might lighten up a little.

The bartender gives me kind of a long, slow nod, and Eddie gives me kind of a long, slow nod, and the bartender goes off to get my drink.

Now I'm thinking, maybe, since I got three hundred sixty bucks in my briefcase maybe I should buy everybody a drink. So that's what I do.

I say, “Get the house a round, my good man!” and everyone down the way starts clapping, and Eddie leans over and whispers:

“You don't got no Jaguar,” and goes back to sipping his drink.

I say, “Excuse me, what was that again?”

He says, “Your Jag! Your Jag!”

I say, “What about my Jag, my Jag?”

“You don't got one,” he says as the bartender comes over to me.

“That will be thirty-two fifty,” the bartender says.

I say, “What do you mean, 'I don't got one'? It's parked on the street!”

“It's not there, pal-a-me-o! It wasn't ever there!”

“Thirty-two fifty!” says the fat bartender who was starting to sincerely get on my nerves.

“Jesus Christ!” I say, “Hold on! Are you saying that my car's been stolen?”

“I'm saying, there ain't no Jaguar out there.”

“Look, Mr. Jaguar, I need thirty-two fifty!” said the big ugly fat slob behind the bar.

“Jesus Christ, here!” I say, and toss him two twenties out of my briefcase.

“Now, look buddy, I don't want any problem,” says the big fat ugly bald stinking son-of-a-bitch slob, “Just give me my money, or I'm calling the cops!”

I look down at the big paw he's waving in front of me and I see he's holding two cardboard Heineken coasters.

I open my briefcase and find that its been somehow filled with Heineken coasters.

I say, “Jesus Christ! First my Jaguar and now my three hundred sixty dollars! What kind of a town is this?”

When the cops come, I tell both them flat-feet, in no uncertain terms, to call the mayor directly because I want to speak with him personally! Chop-chop!

And the cops do just that. All of a sudden they seem to know exactly who I am. It's “Mr. Porter” this, and “Mr. Porter” that. They think I must be cold on account of my coat being stolen along with everything else and they give me a coat and tie it all up nice and tight.

Next thing I know I'm being driven to the Mayor's house. And boy you should see his house. Huge! Called, “Bellview” something or other. All the servants are dressed in white clothes.

They tell me I get to sleep in the Mayor's bed. Can you believe that?

Everybody's real nice.

-1000 words-